


Singular

by ancalime8301



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Broken Bones, Community: hc_bingo, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancalime8301/pseuds/ancalime8301
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. Holmes/Watson/Mary</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The kidnap/torture portion of this story [the first chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (if I can find it again, I'll link it, haha).  
> Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were abducted in the center of London in the middle of the day, and no one on the busy street suspected there was anything amiss.

Neither did they, at first.

Watson paid little heed to the four-wheeler that pulled up in response to his signal for a cab, glancing at it only briefly before holding the door open for Holmes. Holmes continued animatedly explaining the revelation he'd had in connection with the string of kidnappings as he climbed inside. Watson had barely closed the door before the cab jerked abruptly into motion, and he stumbled, nearly falling atop Holmes, who stopped speaking long enough to help Watson settle onto the seat across from him.

"So I believe a cab was used to whisk away the victims," Holmes said, resuming his argument. "Very much like this one, in fact. Note the frosted windows so none can see in or out. And this particular vehicle, like several of this kind, boasts bolts on the outside of the doors for conveying unruly passengers on those occasions when such is warranted." Holmes frowned. "Watson, what is that smell?"

Watson had noticed the slightly sweet smell as soon as he closed the door. He recognized it, but could not remember why. Looking around for the source, he spied a towel beneath Holmes' seat. "Holmes," he said sharply, pointing.

Holmes retrieved the towel and was about to sniff it curiously when Watson finally made the connection that should have come much sooner. "Don't!" he cried, reaching for the door so they could cast it out. "It's chloroform."

Holmes immediately held the towel away from them, making ready to fling it out the door, but the door wouldn't budge. Watson, dread and a distinct light-headedness beginning to overwhelm him, tried the opposite door, with the same lack of effect. He exchanged a horrified look with Holmes, who took up Watson's cane and began pounding on the roof of the vehicle with it.

There was no response from the driver. Watson was startled from near-sleep by the clatter of his cane hitting the floor of the cab, and opened his eyes with difficulty to see Holmes slumping down onto the seat, looking as loose-limbed as Watson felt. Holmes' eyes remained open, however, and Watson marveled at that even as his own slid shut.

Holmes focused his attention on the route of the carriage and frowned--or attempted to, his muscles were not following his commands as readily as they ought--when they stopped near Pentonville prison, in a block containing several warehouses and other structures ideal for hiding illicit activities. The door was thrown open with a bang, and a waft of fresher air revived Holmes somewhat. Voices muttered in conference, debating about "the extra" until the man in charge concluded that the extra could be of some use and directed that they be removed from the carriage.

Hands reached in and grasped Watson by the ankles, yanking him unceremoniously from the seat and out the door. The hands returned for him a moment later, and he blinked at the change in light as he was pulled into a yard of some sort. There were dismayed exclamations at his awareness; he was held mostly upright for a moment, then something hard connected with the side of his head and he knew no more.

~~~

They awoke sharing a stone room, probably in a basement of some sort. The only light was cast by a slit at the base of the heavy wooden door. Within three hours of waking, Holmes had gone over every inch of the square stones of the walls, probing for weaknesses, thoroughly examined the door--the hinges were on the outside, and even their combined weight did not budge it--and convinced Watson to feel along the stones that Holmes couldn't reach.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait and speculate. Holmes paced restlessly around the room, neatly avoiding Watson's feet in his circuit, and considered this new information in light of what he already knew about the kidnappings.

At one point the light at the bottom of the door was interrupted and a plate was shoved in, followed by a shallow bowl of water. The hand belonged to a fairly burly man, but that was all Holmes could determine before it vanished. No steps were heard coming or going, which gave him considerable fuel for thought as he resumed pacing, rebuffing all of Watson's attempts to hand him some of the bread from the plate. "It might be drugged," he said. Watson ate it anyway.

The light winked out about an hour after the food was deposited. Watson took this as an obvious signal to sleep, but Holmes continued his pacing about the room, three strides down, one across (it had been two before Watson laid down on the unforgiving floor to sleep).

The lamp was re-lit approximately nine hours later; Holmes determined it must be a lamp by the way it flickered. The plate and bowl were removed and a new plate and bowl replaced them. When Watson woke, he tried to convince Holmes to partake of the bread and water, but Holmes continued to refuse.

The long hours dragged by. As an experiment, Holmes kept Watson from setting the empty plate and bowl near the door slot. When the hand reappeared and did not find the dishes within reach, it left without depositing any additional food or water. Watson sighed aggrievedly but didn't say anything.

Three days passed in similar monotony. Holmes finally relented and ate and drank with Watson, only for them both to discover that the water was laced with something the fourth morning.

Holmes returned to consciousness in a much larger, brighter room than their small cell. Multiple voices in conversation seemed so very loud after the silence of imprisonment and he tried to cover his ears but his hands were tied behind his back. His ankles were also tied together, and he had been tossed onto the floor in a corner. He was ignored for quite some time and he used it to listen in as he tested the bonds on his wrists and ankles and scanned what he could see of the rough, sparsely furnished room.

He gained no useful information from the trivial conversations and drew no conclusions from the room save that the building was equipped with gas and was probably located within a mile or so of where the cab had initially taken them, judging by the smell of the river (strong enough to detect even without windows in the room) and mud in the footprints on the floor. After that his captors took an interest in him, asking him rapid questions about his interest in the kidnappings and how much he had told the police.

Holmes refused to answer at first, and received several blows about the head for his trouble, one of which reopened the wound above his ear that had deprived him of consciousness several days earlier. The blood seeped down his neck and the sight seemed to encourage their viciousness, for the questions ceased and blows continued to rain down upon his body. Holmes curled up as well as he could and waited for the abuse to stop.

Eventually it did and all but one of the men left the room. Holmes did not move, knowing it would hurt if he did, and tried to focus on remembering the faces and identifying features of the men who had left. But his mind was spinning and he found he wasn't even certain how many there had been, much less what each one had looked like.

He got another chance a few hours later, as four men trooped back into the room and resumed right where they had left off. This time there were no questions--the pretense was no longer necessary, it would seem--just punches and kicks and being held aloft by one while the others struck him.

It was a relief when the blows ceased and the pain was replaced by the familiar scent of chloroform as a handkerchief was held over his mouth and nose. His bonds were cut when he was returned to his cell, and he woke sprawled on the floor next to a small plate of bread and bowl of water.

He was alone.

 

The beatings didn't occur every day, just most days. As time passed and his injuries grew more severe, it became more difficult to choke down the food he was given; opening his mouth was almost more than he could bear, and chewing was nearly out of the question. He was fairly certain his jaw was broken on one side, and he was certainly missing several teeth.

His hands, too, were less able to grasp as they should, his fingers twisted out of joint or broken, his wrists sprained or broken. The tally of injuries didn't stop there, of course, for pain flared and throbbed in every limb and what seemed like every joint and bone of his body. Somehow he wouldn't have been surprised if they were consciously trying to break every bone he possessed.

Holmes was almost grateful that he couldn't see what he looked like and that Watson wasn't there to witness the extent of his injuries. During the moments that the pain was more than he could stoically bear, Holmes wished they weren't so careful in their blows. They were careful to keep him from bleeding to death; he had noticed very early on that they didn't draw blood if it could be avoided. Careful to keep him conscious for as much as possible, careful to make him feel every bit of exquisite agony.

When he could withdraw from the pain, Holmes wondered what had become of Watson, what ordeal they might test him with. It seemed too much to hope that they would be merciful to him--Holmes being the one they had wanted, presumably for knowing and deducing too much about the kidnappings--but Holmes hoped anyway. Anything to save Watson from the torment he suffered.

 

Watson wasn't entirely surprised when he woke after their drugged breakfast to find himself alone in an even smaller room, though it was almost identical in every other respect. He was left entirely alone for two entire days, his stomach grumbling and his throat parched as he waited to discover his doom. He idly wondered where Holmes had been taken; after several hours of utter solitude, it almost seemed he could hear Holmes' voice, and he had to feel every inch of the room to convince himself it was only an illusion.

Two men burst into his seclusion during the third day, startling him so badly that he didn't put up a fight when they restrained him and injected something into his arm. He remained mostly aware, but his limbs were useless as he was hefted over a shoulder and carried to a new room that had an ominous-looking chair, leather straps hanging from it, set up in the middle of the room. He was dropped into it and buckled securely in, his head lolling.

His head was jerked up and a large pitcher of water appeared in his line of sight. "You drink all," was growled in his ear, and the water started pouring into his mouth.

At first he gulped the water thirstily, his dehydrated body rejoicing at the bounty, but all too soon his shrunken stomach began protesting the sudden influx, cramping and churning. He choked and gagged, but the water coursed inexorably down his throat. Any attempt to turn away was prevented by the hands holding his head in place.

Watson closed his mouth and was relieved when the flow of water stopped. He coughed and tried valiantly not to throw up, his stomach feeling stretched and tender. A fist suddenly buried itself in his swollen gut, quite effectively driving the contents back out again, and he retched onto his shirt and into his lap. For a while the vomiting seemed like it would never end. When it did he panted for breath, feeling utterly wrung out.

"You drink all," was growled at him again. "Refuse, we do again. Vomit, we do again."

The hands held his head and the re-filled pitcher tipped its burden into his mouth again. Watson held out a little longer this second time, but the nausea from so much water swirling in his otherwise empty stomach was too much and his body expelled it, staining his clothes still further.

He finally managed to swallow and keep down the water on the third try. Wet and humiliated and nearly ready to burst from the pressure, he was forced to walk, blindfolded, back to his solitary room.

He was afraid to sit or move for fear of losing some of the precious liquid--he could only guess how long he would be kept without food or water this time--and for fear of being discovered and dragged back out to endure that torture yet again.

It was several hours before he managed to lie down without anything threatening to come back up.

 

On average it was three days between water-pitchers and as he grew weaker from lack of food it became more and more difficult to maintain sufficient control to hold the water down. During the seemingly interminable days between waterings, his stomach growled relentlessly and he found it difficult to sleep, to think, to do anything but dwell on how long it had been since he'd had anything of substance pass between his lips. He was being starved and he knew it.

After about a week and a half of such treatment, Watson was fetched from his cell once again and carried to the usual room. He groaned in dread but didn't try to fight; he couldn't. But this time, instead of the pitcher of water, he was presented with a cup of soup and a piece of bread. These were fed to him, slowly and carefully, the bread dipped in the soup before being lifted to his lips. He ate eagerly, ravenously, and would have eaten ten times the amount offered if it had been given.

He was deposited back in his cell as soon as he was finished; he was so relieved at skipping the water-pitcher torment that he didn't question his good fortune. But as his stomach began to empty once again, he wondered what prompted the gentle treatment. He came up with two possibilities: first, they recognized that he would soon expire without some sort of nourishment and wished to prolong the torment; or second, rescue was near at hand and they wanted to make it appear that their captives were treated leniently. He rather hoped for the second option, but suspected the first was the truth.

His suspicions were borne out three days later when he was brought to the same chair and presented with the same pitcher of water as before. He sighed and resigned himself to his fate, hoping Holmes fared somewhat better.

 

Holmes no longer had any idea what day it was or how many days he had been beaten. He just wanted it to stop, would have given anything, everything, to make it stop. He even said as much to his abusers, but his pleading fell on deaf ears. Assuming, of course, his words were even understandable; with the pain and swelling in his jaw and the rest of his face, he would not be surprised if his words were unintelligible.

They had stopped drugging him for the trip back to his cell, having realized that the pain of being picked up and moved was more than sufficient to keep him from struggling or even observing anything of the route from one room to another. This particular day he managed not to pass out or throw up from the pain, so he was relatively aware when the door was thrown open and he was tossed onto the floor. As always, he looked for Watson before the the floor greeted him and removed him from consciousness for a while, and expected, as always, to see nothing but bare walls and hard floor.

This time, there was something huddled against the far wall. "Wa'son?" he murmured as soon as the pain abated enough for him to regain awareness. There was no response. He repeated the question often, still with no answer, and he decided to cross the distance between them, realizing as he began that he was nearly unable to move. The attempt to propel himself forward with his knees catapulted him back into oblivion for a period of time. Hands and knees wasn't even worth attempting.

Finally he settled on using his elbows, but even that was exceedingly painful and he blacked out briefly whenever he used his right arm. Slowly, excruciatingly, he dragged himself to the figure he'd seen in the brief light, hoping it was Watson and fearing he was much hurt from the way he didn't respond to Holmes' inquiries.

At last Holmes found him and collapsed partially atop him, his head pillowed on Watson's chest. He knew it was Watson from the smell of him, and Watson yet lived, for his heart beat steadily, if weakly, beneath Holmes' ear. "Wa'son," he said again.

This time he could feel Watson stir a little, and Watson's hand touched his hair, then patted its way to Holmes' face. "Holmes?" Watson slurred, his motions jerky and uncoordinated as he tried to feel Holmes' features.

Holmes couldn't help whimpering as the rough touch sparked bright flares of pain in his abused face. "Wa'son," he replied. Watson's hand ceased its exploration and slid down to his neck, feeling for his pulse. Holmes could feel his heart fluttering in his chest and could only wonder what Watson thought of it.

As much as he was relieved to have Watson returned to him and wanted to curl around him and never let him go again, Holmes' exertion was catching up to him and his consciousness was quickly ebbing away. With his last bit of strength, he moved his hand to rest on Watson's arm.

 

A flurry of activity. The sound of multiple footsteps echoing down hallways accustomed to utter silence, the movement causing the lamp flames to waver and flicker. Doors unbarred, thrown open. Tearful captives released, clinging to their rescuers as they blink owlishly in the sudden light.

A secluded room down a distant corridor. A single lamp guttering on the wall. A door opened, a gasp, a policeman darting forward with a lamp in hand. Running out again, shouting. "Someone fetch a doctor! I've found them!"


	2. Chapter 2

Mary wasn't allowed to touch John until the doctors were finished with their initial assessments; when they withdrew to confer, she planted herself at his bedside and clutched his hand, unwilling to leave again without him saying so. But there was little chance of that at present, for John was exceedingly weak--starved, she'd overheard one doctor say--too weak, even, to wake.

She ought to have known better than to underestimate her John. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, and when she straightened, his eyes were ever so slightly open. "Mary," he rasped, his fingers twitching against her hand.

"Hush," she said, squeezing his hand and tracing his jaw with the fingers of her other hand.

"Holmes?"

"He's in another room. They haven't told me how he's doing. Shall I find out for you?"

"Please." His eyes spoke more vehemently than his voice was able, and she bent to brush a brief kiss to his dry lips.

"I will do my best." John's eyes closed again, and the doctors soon bustled back into the room and bustled her out of it. She stood uncertainly outside the door for a moment, then spied a familiar policeman down the hall. "Constable Clark," she said, hurrying toward him.

He tipped his hat to her. "Good day, Miss Mary. How is Doctor Watson getting on?"

"He woke briefly and spoke to me," she said with a smile. "He asked about Mr. Holmes. Do you know where he is?"

"He's in the room right next to Doctor Watson," he replied, pointing to a door where a stream of doctors and nurses were continually passing in and out, an identical expression of vague discontent on each face.

"Has there been any word on how he is doing?"

"Afraid not, ma'am."

"Does he have any family to summon?" As independent as she knew Mr. Holmes to be, the thought of him alone in hospital was a pitiable one.

"His brother has been sent for."

There was a brother? It was news to her, but she suspected John had known. "Thank you, Constable," she said softly, approaching Mr. Holmes' door purposefully. Seeing an opportunity, she slipped into the room and took up a position near the wall so she could observe without being in the way.

She would not have recognized him.

Granted, it would be difficult to recognize even her own husband in such a state, with one eye swelled shut, bruises discoloring the parts of his face not covered with several weeks' hair growth, and one side of his jaw visibly swollen. A nurse was clipping bits of his hair off under a doctor's direction. Another two nurse-and-doctor pairs were working on each of Holmes' arms, splinting and wrapping his fingers and wrists and forearms.

Then one stopped and administered something with a syringe; a keening sound that Mary hadn't quite noticed abruptly ceased, and she shivered. Mr. Holmes was in a great deal of pain and she wanted to weep for him.

Mary continued to stare, taking in as much detail as her untrained eye could identify--a broken collarbone, numerous broken ribs from the way his chest moved oddly as he took shallow breaths--and watching another set of doctors and nurses tending to his legs. His legs, like his arms, were being wrapped in layer upon layer of linen; in bandaging his knee, one of the doctors moved his leg in a way that made him cry out in agony despite the medication. Mary hoped never to hear such a sound again.

Then one of the doctors was moving away from Mr. Holmes and greeting a man that had just entered the room. The brother, she was sure of it; there was enough family resemblance despite a distinct difference in height and build. The doctor and this other Mr. Holmes stood very near her as the doctor spoke quietly, and she did her best to listen in.

"He'll live, but . . . no internal bleeding has been found . . . uncertain how much function will be regained . . . sedate him for a time . . ."

The general impression Mary gathered was that the wounds were serious but would heal with time and rest, though Mr. Holmes may always suffer some pain or limited movement as a result of his ordeal. She frowned; she knew enough about her husband's mercurial friend to recognize that Mr. Holmes was not one to bear chronic pain or physical limits with grace.

"Mrs. Watson," a smooth, cultured voice greeted her as she felt a touch on her elbow. "Shouldn't you be with your husband?"

Her startled glance met the gaze of a pair of probing grey eyes. The other Mr. Holmes. "John wanted me to find out how Mr. Holmes fared," she said, raising her chin and daring him to challenge her.

"Which you have done," he said mildly. "I do not wish to make you feel unwelcome, but in consideration of my brother's modesty, it would be best if you returned when he is in a better state of dress."

Mary peeked at the bed again and her eyes widened. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I didn't notice. You're right, I should return later. Will you be staying here with him, Mr. Holmes?"

His eyes smiled at her, though the rest of his expression remained placidly calm. "For a time, yes," he replied as he escorted her to the door.

A small thought that had been germinating in the back of her mind presented itself insistently, and she stopped just outside the door, the other Mr. Holmes' hand still on her elbow. "I would like to request that your brother and my husband share a room. I know John will rest easier if Mr. Holmes is within sight. Would you object?"

His expression became thoughtful and he regarded her seriously. "No, I would not."

 

Mary made her request, and the doctors were amenable, but it would be at least a week before they were willing to attempt moving Dr. Watson; moving Mr. Holmes was, of course, quite out of the question. In the meantime, Mary made it her duty to check in on Mr. Holmes when John was sleeping or being tended by the nurses. Mr. Holmes didn't know of her visits, as he was drugged insensible to keep the pain at bay and to keep him still so he could heal. But she felt better for looking in on him on John's behalf, especially when his brother returned to work and only stopped by occasionally.

He looked so small, all bandaged up and nearly motionless. Practically every inch of him was covered either in bandages or bruises, but she noticed that the swelling around his eye was receding and took heart that his other injuries must similarly be healing, albeit slowly.

The true delight of those long days was attending to her husband, helping him eat, assisting him in shaving and other necessary tasks, and reading to him when he was fatigued but not yet tired enough to sleep. John objected to her help at first, but she tartly pointed out that, being a doctor's wife, she ought to be familiar with the basics of nursing, and this was the perfect situation for practice. He had to concede the point.

John slept long and often, but he gradually grew stronger and could hold a cup or a spoon without assistance and without trembling. He progressed to the point that Mary allowed him to hold the razor himself, and as she watched him, she had an idea. When John was finished and napping, she took the basin and shaving kit to Mr. Holmes' room. A nurse was there, giving him an injection; she looked skeptical but consented to the plan, and brought a few towels for her use.

Mary perched on the edge of the bed, watching Mr. Holmes' face carefully for any sign that she was causing him discomfort. She set the basin in his lap gently, draped a towel down his chest and tucked another around his neck, then set to work.

His jaw was still somewhat swollen on the one side, so she used a light touch on the razor. It was a challenge, but the practice on John helped. When she wiped the last of the lather from his face, she marveled at how young and vulnerable he looked. Perhaps that was why he never went about clean-shaven.

She returned to John's side quite pleased with herself.

 

The next day, a full two weeks after being rescued, Watson was able to stand on his own and walk a few steps with assistance. He was shaking when he sat back down on his bed, but the first thing he said afterward was a demand to know when he could move to Holmes' room.

He was moved the next day, transported in a wheeled chair since his strength was not yet sufficient to walk the distance. Watson's bed was furthest from the door, since Holmes needed more attention from the staff, so he was able to get a glimpse of Holmes as he was pushed past, enough to see he was still heavily bandaged.

It wasn't until Watson was seated on his bed that he had a clear look at Holmes, who he had not seen with his eyes since they were abducted weeks--or was it months?--before.

He could guess at the injuries beneath the yards of bandaging and winced in sympathy, imagining how Holmes must have come by all of them. Unnaturally still, Holmes looked fragile, his complexion nearly as white as the sheets. Watson hurt just looking at him.

Mary touched Watson's shoulder. "You should rest. The nurse thinks they'll let him wake up for a while tomorrow."

He stretched out on his side so he could keep Holmes within his sight. Mary held his hand even as he stared at Holmes until he fell asleep.

 

He had been floating in a dark, cushioned place for so long that he wasn't sure what was happening at first when the cushioning grew thinner and light began filtering in. Then there were sounds--voices, murmurs that comforted him even though he couldn't understand them or identify who they were.

Right after he was able to hear came a wave of hot pain and he whimpered. There was a touch on his brow and one of the voices came closer, speaking soothingly in words he still couldn't comprehend. He tried to open his eyes to see who was near him, but the light was too overwhelming. He tried to move away from it and agony cascaded over him.

He panted and squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light. He fought against the pain, trying to cling to the voices that continued speaking--they sounded worried, now--but he was too easily overcome. In the midst of everything there was a small prick against his skin and the dark began to overtake him again.

He surrendered gladly.

 

Six days later they tried again to allow Holmes to rouse to full consciousness. A half hour before he would have been due for his sedative, he was given a generous dose of morphine. Watson sat close by in a chair between their beds, waiting anxiously with Mary by his side.

An hour after the morphine, Holmes showed signs of waking. His breathing quickened, his eyelids quivered, and parts of his body twitched as if he was methodically assessing his physical state.

Watson wished he could take Holmes' hand so he'd know he was there, but his hands were bandaged until they looked like mittens, and Watson didn't want to hurt him with a touch that could be felt through all of the layers. He spoke instead, saying Holmes' name softly and watching for a response.

Holmes seemed to turn his head a little in his direction.

The doctor observing the proceedings from the other side of the bed motioned for him to continue.

On the fourth repetition of his name, Holmes took a sharp breath and tried to speak. "Wa'son?" he mumbled almost voicelessly.

"Yes, I'm right here, Holmes," Watson answered eagerly.

Holmes blinked repeatedly, then seemed to focus on Watson's face. "Watson," he said. "All right?"

"I'll be all right, and so will you."

Mary held a cup to Holmes' lips for him to sip a bit of water. He looked up at her and nodded a fraction when he'd had enough.

"How do you feel?" Watson asked.

Holmes took a while to think about this, his eyes drooping sleepily. "Tired. Ev'rything hurts."

"They did a number on you," Watson agreed sorrowfully. "But you've already started healing. It will get better."

Holmes only response was a hum--of agreement? acknowledgement? it was impossible to tell--as his eyes closed and his breaths deepened and he slipped back into sleep.

The doctor checked Holmes' pulse and nodded in satisfaction. "Very good. He was more aware than we anticipated. I will have the sedation limited to nighttime and we shall see how he responds."


	3. Chapter 3

Even without the sedation, Holmes was nearly constantly asleep, only waking when he was in pain. Whenever he did wake, he was offered small amounts of food and drink in addition to the morphine, though he did not accept much. Watson watched Holmes constantly--which is to say, whenever he himself was awake; he, too, still took numerous naps--and spent much of his time in the chair beside Holmes' bed.

Mary visited daily, often remaining for much of the day. When Watson was drowsy, she would read aloud or talk quietly to him until he fell asleep, sitting close enough to his bed that she could hold his hand. At least once a day she would gently needle him into walking with her along the corridor; any improvement in his strength and endurance he had to attribute to her, since he would have remained constantly by Holmes' side if given the choice. Mary didn't give him the choice.

Sometimes Watson would wake to find Mary watching and softly speaking to Holmes instead of him. She always laid her hand on Holmes' forehead when she was near him, and after witnessing this a few times, Watson asked about it. "I don't want to hurt him, but I want him to know what he's hearing isn't just in his head," she said simply.

Watson took her hand and kissed it. She made it sound like anyone would do such a kind thing for Holmes even though he knew that wasn't the case, and he loved her all the more for it. "I don't deserve you."

"No, you don't," she said tartly. "But you can make it up to me by getting better so you can come home. If you take too long, we won't have enough time to arrange everything for Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Mary smiled at him with a look of infinite patience that she must have perfected while she was a governess. Squeezing his hand, she elaborated on her statement. "Mr. Holmes will not wish to remain here once he begins recovering, but he will require a great deal of help if he is to leave. He trusts you and is not likely to accept the help of anyone else. And you are a doctor, so the doctors here will be more inclined to allow him to leave if he will be under your care. Not only that, I doubt he will be able to scale the stairs to his rooms by the time he demands to leave. Our house has only one step between the street and the door, and we have a room available on the ground floor."

Watson was struck speechless.

He really, really didn't deserve her.

When he could find his words again, he said, "I hope you realize you are offering to live under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes for an indeterminate period of time. Mrs. Hudson would warn you off if she could."

"I know. But I will do it for you, and for him. I know you care for him."

She kissed him then, and part of Watson desperately wished they weren't in a shared room at that moment. He had to satisfy himself with kissing her back, which he did with fervor until they were interrupted by a knock on the door and the rattling of dishes on a tray.

"Ah, your dinner," Mary said as she stepped back and straightened her dress. "Would you like me to stay until you've finished?" She always departed around dinnertime so that she would not interrupt the nurses' evening duties, particularly those involving Holmes.

Watson eyed his tray while he decided if he wanted her to stay and distract his attention away from the bland food or if he wanted her to leave so she wouldn't see it when he inevitably started gulping the food down as if it was his last meal even though he knew it wasn't. Sometimes he wasn't sure he'd ever look at food quite the same way again.

"You don't have to stay," he said finally. Then another thought occurred to him--quite a feat, with dinner staring him in the face--"Didn't you say you were having dinner with your parents today?"

"I did. But I still have time, and they will understand if I am a little tardy. My husband is in hospital, you know," she said with a mischievous grin.

"I had heard something to that effect," Watson teased back. He took her hand and kissed it again. "Go. Have a good evening. I'll see you tomorrow."

She gave him a peck on the lips. "Tomorrow."

Watson was left alone to stare at the dinner that was taunting him. He leaned over and tugged the curtain out far enough that Holmes couldn't see him eating. As if eating was something to hide. He felt faintly ridiculous, lurking behind the curtain with his dinner, but knew he'd feel absurd if Holmes woke or a nurse walked in and saw him shoveling the food in as quickly as he could swallow it. He knew he didn't need to do that. He knew he felt awful afterward, both from shame and a stomachache.

He knew all of these things but they didn't make any difference whatsoever. He considered it a success that he made it halfway through his meal before the overwhelming urge conquered his will to eat his food like a civilized human being. When he was first able to feed himself, he didn't last even half that long.

And afterward he felt foolish and his stomach hurt and he scolded himself for giving in. Again.

Watson shoved the empty (oh so empty, and he could have eaten more) tray to the foot of the bed and leaned back against the headboard, sighing.

His sigh was echoed back from the other side of the curtain. He leaned over and moved the curtain; Holmes was looking over at him sleepily. "Watson," Holmes murmured.

"How are you feeling?"

"As well as can be expected," Holmes said evasively. He turned his head to see Watson better. "How are you?"

"Fine. I'm fine," Watson said immediately.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You would not still be here if you were 'fine'," he pointed out astutely.

Watson was completely unprepared for Holmes to be back in deducing mode already. "I'm getting my strength back. I think they'll allow me to leave soon." Leaving had not yet been discussed.

"What did they do to you?" Holmes asked softly. "No one has ever said."

"You have had more than enough to worry about on your own," Watson said hurriedly. "They starved me. It was nothing."

"Starvation is not nothing, particularly to one unused to skipping meals," Holmes objected.

"I have skipped plenty of meals," Watson retorted. "Perhaps you forget that I was in the Army."

"I meant only that you are not in the regular habit of missing meals. The same cannot be said of me," Holmes said mildly.

"True enough," Watson said. "But what was done to me doesn't matter in comparison to what they did to you."

Holmes started to make a dismissive motion, but stopped mid-gesture with a grunt of pain and surprise. "How quickly I forget," he murmured, staring at his swaddled hand and arm. "In any case, you weren't their intended target, so I am grateful no lasting harm was inflicted."

Watson wondered if a new obsession with food could be considered 'lasting harm', but dismissed it as irrelevant.

"How long will I be forced to linger here?"

Watson snorted. "You can't get out of bed. You can't stand on your own. You aren't even eating solid food yet, and you're asking when you'll be allowed to leave? You know better than that."

Holmes looked sheepish. "I cannot abide hospitals."

"I would expect that you'll need to be able to move around a bit under your own power, but they haven't discussed it. They have been too busy making sure you're splinted up so the bones heal properly."

"Is it truly that bad?" Holmes asked, looking down again at his hands. "I feared so, but couldn't be sure . . . there was no light, and all I knew was that it hurt."

"Yes, it was that bad," Watson said, climbing out of his bed and moving to the chair beside Holmes' bed. "They're not sure how well some of it will heal. A few of the fractures had begun to heal out of alignment, and rebreaking them may not have been completely successful."

Holmes grimaced. "Are you going to tell me where these particular fractures are, or must I wait to find out when I am unbandaged?"

Watson looked away from Holmes' unblinking gaze for a moment as he gathered his resolve. "In your hands, primarily," he admitted. "And there were slight alignment anomalies in one or two ribs that they left as they were."

"Whatever was broken the earliest, then," Holmes said with a slight nod. "It is unfortunate, but it makes sense."

Holmes said nothing more for a time and Watson did not wish to interrupt his introspection, so they spent several minutes in silence. Then a pair of nurses entered to see to Holmes; Watson returned to his bed and thought about what Holmes might do if he couldn't resume his consulting detective work due to his injuries. At least that way he wasn't thinking about food.

 

Six weeks after being rescued, some of Holmes' lesser injuries were nearly healed and the rest were coming along quite well. The swelling in his jaw had abated and it no longer pained him as much when trying to eat, so they began giving him soft solids. He still had to be fed by someone, however, since his hands were bandaged quite heavily and, in any case, he would not be able to manipulate utensils yet even if his hands were unencumbered.

It was at this time that the doctors were willing to allow Watson to finish his convalescence at his home but Watson made it clear that he would return daily to sit with Holmes. In light of the exertion required to travel between the two locations, the doctors thought it better for Watson's health for him to remain in hospital until his recovery had progressed further. Mary was not best pleased, but Watson promised he would return home when he could better manage the journey back and forth; she retorted that he would not know what he could manage until he tried it.

Holmes watched their disagreement with something like amusement but he did not take part. Far be it from him to keep the man from his wife any longer after having been the cause of his kidnapping and ill health, even though he did appreciate the company. He enjoyed having both of them around and--somewhat surprisingly--Mary did not appear to hold any grudge against him despite all he had done to keep Watson in his company rather than hers. She even offered to help him with some of his meals.

He found her behavior toward him almost mystifying, which was fortunate. He needed a good puzzle to occupy his mind now that he wasn't sleeping quite so often.

His first observation was that her behavior toward him, while kind and accommodating, did not derive from the same sort of emotional attachment as her behavior toward Watson. One example: though she would happily adjust the bedding for either one of them, her attention to Watson included more touching and sometimes even kissing. This was just as it should be, but the fact was useful to confirm.

Even so, there was something in her eyes when she looked at him that he couldn't quite interpret. At first he thought it was pity and was prepared to take umbrage, but a mental comparison to expressions previously observed revealed there had been a hint of that something in her eyes when she was chiding Watson to cut him down from his hanging experiment immediately following the Blackwood matter. But that was as far as he could take that particular line of thought, for he was unwilling--because he was unable--to attempt further analysis of her emotional state without additional information.

His second observation was related to the first (and perhaps should have been the first observation, but he could be excused due to being heavily medicated): Mary's behavior was unexpectedly kind and solicitous. He might have anticipated such from Watson, who so enjoyed behaving like a mother hen, but in light of their past interactions, this result was most anomalous. There were two possible explanations: first, she was caring for him because it would please Watson, or second, she was caring for him simply because Watson could not.

Well, there was a third potential explanation, but he considered it so unlikely as to be irrelevant: third, she was caring for him because she cared for him independent of Watson's concern for his well-being. The first two explanations were both reasonably likely at the outset, but time had proven that the first was the most logical deduction, since Watson had recovered sufficiently to be able to assist him but Mary still assumed that role in almost all cases.

His third observation was that Watson enjoyed seeing Mary interact with Holmes (which lent additional support to the first explanation for the second observation). Watson's expression relaxed from its slightly pinched, harried look when he watched them.

His fourth observation was that Watson was having some difficulty concerning food. Watson would go to great lengths to be certain that no one watched him eat. Normally this might occur if he didn't want anyone to notice he wasn't eating anything (Holmes knew this from his own experience and extrapolated that it could also apply to Watson), but his dishes were always clean after his meals and there wasn't anywhere he could be hiding anything uneaten. If Holmes ate at a different time than Watson, which happened with some frequency, Watson would watch him closely. Very closely. To the point of following the path of the utensil with his eyes. Holmes didn't think Watson had any idea he was doing so.

His fifth observation was that Mary had noticed Watson's issues with food and brought small items--biscuits, fruit, that sort of thing--with her and encouraged him to eat them whenever he liked, regardless of the time of day. Holmes wished to discuss the matter with her, but it took quite some time for him to be awake at a time when Mary was present and Watson was asleep. He spent that time considering what the problem might be and came to the inevitable conclusion that it had to do with the starvation during their captivity.

Which made it his fault. Naturally. And yet Mary didn't appear to hold it against him. Her words from the last time came to mind--"it was his choice"--so there, at least, was part of the answer.

When an opportunity finally came where he could talk to Mary alone, he was uncharacteristically hard-pressed for words. She spoke first. "Would you mind terribly if I insisted that John come home soon?" Her voice and manner were earnest, as if actually seeking his approval of her intentions.

"Not at all," he assured her. "It would be better if he spent some time away from this place. He needs to be home. You need him to be home."

Her face reddened as she blushed. "It's just that he has too much time to brood here. He needs to think about something other than what happened in that dreadful place. Being home and preparing the house for you may help."

Holmes was taken off-guard by her last statement. "Explain." She did, briefly, and Holmes found himself, once again, surprised. "You don't need to go to all that trouble," he protested. "My brother--"

"I think it will help John's guilt if he knows that he is helping you in some small way."

"His guilt?"

"He thinks he should have noticed sooner that something was amiss with the cab that abducted you."

"Nonsense."

"We know that, but it has been weighing heavily on his mind of late. While it is different from what has been consuming his thoughts, it is not an improvement."

Holmes was not about to let that opening pass him by. "What do you think has been consuming his thoughts?" He wanted to hear how she interpreted it before revealing anything.

"He, well, I'm not sure quite how to put it into words," she said slowly. "There is . . . an anxiety that has been awakened by his ordeal, an anxiety about having enough to eat. Which is understandable, but he is often frustrated because he knows he need not worry anymore, yet he cannot seem to stop. It is better than it was at first, but he thinks he ought to be rid of the panic by now."

"A most interesting assessment," Holmes said thoughtfully. "How do you explain his unwillingness to be watched as he eats?"

Mary laughed a little. "I should have known you would have noticed. He will not speak of it, but I can only assume there were times when he was offered food by your captors, only to have it suddenly taken away; he does not wish to be watched because sometimes he eats in a manner that is not proper."

"Why don't you just say it?" Watson's voice broke in irritably. "There are times when I cannot help but gulp my food like an ill-mannered child. Because it might go away. Even though I know it won't." He covered his face with his hands as if to hide from them.

"But you're much better about it than you were," Mary said gently, rising and removing his hands from his face. "You went through a terrible ordeal; there is no shame in that."

"Which is why you were talking about me when I was asleep."

"We worry about you. Would you prefer we talk about you while you're awake?"

"Perhaps I don't wish to be talked about."

"John," she said reproachfully, squeezing his hands.

"And yet you talk about me," Holmes put in, sounding smug.

"That's different."

Holmes made a derisive noise. "No, it isn't. In any case, if you went home, we wouldn't have reason to talk about you. At the very least, it would lessen the number of opportunities."

Watson sighed. "Perhaps."

Mary squeezed his hands again and released them as he sat up. She returned to Holmes' bedside and said in a low voice, "Are you certain?"

"Quite certain. And when you take him home, I expect not to see either of you for at least two days, understood?" he replied quietly.

Mary flushed but nodded, glancing quickly at Watson, who had come to stand beside her.

"Have you decided when I'm leaving?" Watson asked dryly.

Holmes gestured dismissively. "You may determine that," he said with a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

Watson departed for home three days later. Holmes took the opportunity to begin testing his ability to move; he had been swathed in bandages for nearly eight weeks, after all, so it was high time that he start the lengthy process of returning to his former strength.

The first time he tried to move his fingers he felt sick with the pain. It wasn't the same sort of pain as when they were broken; this pain was from trying to move joints and sinews that had been perfectly still for far too long. His legs had a similar problem, compounded by a badly damaged right knee that sent shooting pains up his leg whenever he tried to move it even the tiniest fraction. His right arm, too, was a struggle. He'd been able to move his left all along--despite the fracture in his forearm--but the right had been broken near the shoulder and had been immobilized so it would heal. Thus his shoulder was stiff like his fingers and moving it was just as difficult.

His efforts left him in agony and, though he had been able to exist without pain relief for two weeks up to that point, it took a large dose of morphine to ease him into sleep that night. He woke the next morning determined to keep pushing himself. The pain couldn't last forever.

 

Mary had spent quite some time preparing their small house for John's return, and her hope was that he wouldn't consciously notice any of it. She did not wish him to feel uncomfortable about his lingering anxiety even as she sought to ease that anxiety by placing small bowls and plates of food in every room of the house. On the table in the hallway was a small plate of teacakes; on his desk in the study, a shallow bowl of nuts; on the sideboard in the parlor, a bowl of fruit; in their bedroom, a silver platter of chocolates.

When John stepped inside, she stood back and waited as he stopped and heaved a deep sigh. "Well, then," he said, sounding weary.

Only then did Mary come forward and ease his coat from his shoulders, hanging it on a hook near the door. "Come to the kitchen. Dinner is waiting."

He passively allowed her to take his arm and guide him down the hallway. Just as she'd requested, the housekeeper had set everything out and then left for the day; they both had spent hours that afternoon on preparing the food, and Mary hoped John would appreciate it.

He did. His eyes widened and he remarked that they must be expecting guests; he did not seem quite certain how to react when she assured him it would be just the two of them. He flushed and seemed ready to take offense, so she held his face in her hands and kissed him until he relaxed and kissed her hungrily. Then she pulled away and urged him into his chair and took her own, the corner of the table between them.

She took his plate and gave him some of everything, of the roast and the potatoes and the vegetables and the gravy and the rolls, and set it before him. "There is plenty more if you are still hungry after," she said with a smile, slipping her hand under the table to pat his knee.

He smiled and poured the wine. There were no more words exchanged between them for quite some time after.

Mary watched John attentively even as she ate her own meal, and readily added more food to his plate as he cleared it, pointedly paying no attention to how many times she did so. When he came to a point where his grip on the fork tightened and he tensed, she gently took the fork from him, deliberately spearing a single piece of potato and offering it to him. When he had chewed and swallowed, she cut a small piece of meat and gave him that.

Bite by bite, she fed him until he was able to overcome the panic that had gripped him. She let him have the fork when he captured her hand, though she looked at him questioningly until he nodded and smiled a little in reassurance. She released the fork and touched his hand briefly, then returned to her own meal.

Even with the interruption she was finished eating before him and was content to remain at the table, sipping her wine as she waited patiently for him to finish. At length he sat back in his chair with a deep sigh. "I think I'm done," he said, idly pushing at the small amount of vegetables on his plate.

"Stay there a moment and make sure while I start putting the rest away," she said, rising from her chair.

His plate was clean by the time the leftovers were packed away in the icebox and he looked vaguely uncomfortable as he nursed the last of his wine. She set his plate in the sink and came back to stand beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "Will you stay up for a while or go straight to bed?"

"I think I'll stay up a bit."

They retired to the parlor, where Mary picked up her needlework and John read the day's papers. They sat in comfortable silence for some time, the crackling of the fire and the rustle of newspaper the only sounds. After almost two hours, he stood and stretched with a yawn. "Go on, I'll be up in a moment," she urged, and smiled to hear him checking the locks while she put her things away and banked the fire.

She settled into bed beside him, pressed against his side, her arm draped over his waist, and was grateful he was finally beside her again. He slipped his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "I love you," he murmured as he fell asleep. She fell asleep thinking about what to have for breakfast, and suppressed a tired giggle at herself for thinking about food when she was sleeping with her husband for the first time in months.

Mary woke the next morning to John kissing and caressing her. He was hungry for something other than breakfast, and she was delighted to indulge him.

 

It was four days before they returned to the hospital to visit Holmes. Watson entered the room first, just in time to see Holmes push himself off of his perch on the far edge of the bed and try to stand, his forearms braced against the back of the chair that had been left between the beds. He managed to balance on his good leg for a moment, and Watson rushed to help him.

"Are you trying to hurt yourself?" Watson demanded, reaching out to grasp him by the waist. "Now sit down before you fall down."

"I had it under control," Holmes huffed, but he let Watson steer him back onto the bed.

"Oh, yes, balancing on one leg is quite safe," Watson retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Holmes raised his chin and said haughtily, "I had the chair for support."

Watson snorted. "And what would've happened if you started to fall and tried to grab it? Would it have helped, with your hands in that condition?"

Holmes looked down at his hands--the bandaging was gone, but his fingers still settled into the slight curl that the wrappings had enforced--and said, "I would have managed." He carefully tightened his hands into fists and crossed his arms so they weren't visible.

"But now that we're here, you can help him, John," Mary said softly.

Holmes looked over when she spoke and nodded at her, acknowledging her presence. Then he looked up at Watson as if awaiting his verdict on Mary's suggestion.

"You're going to need crutches, you know," Watson said, sounding put-upon. "But I suppose I can assist you until you get them."

The difference in height was a bit of an issue when determining the best way for Watson to act as Holmes' prop; they found it worked best when Watson sat in the chair, his hands on Holmes' hips, while Holmes braced the heels of his hands on Watson's shoulders. In this position, Holmes was able to stand one-footed for a minute or two before he began to shake with the effort. He insisted upon repeating the exercise several times, and even set his right foot down briefly, though trying to shift any weight onto it nearly made him black out.

Watson insisted upon discontinuing the attempts when Holmes' breathing became ragged and his complexion paled. Even then, Holmes resisted Watson's urging that he settle back into bed and asked that Watson examine his bad knee. Only when Watson reluctantly agreed did Holmes flop against his pillows, laboriously shifting himself into his spot in the middle of the bed while trying not to strain any of the injuries that still pained him.

Holmes' knee was a problem. If there had been any fractures, they weren't palpable through the slight swelling that remained. Watson laid a hand over the joint while he carefully manipulated it, minutely bending and straightening the knee. Holmes squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, his breath coming in gasps as he tried not to cry out.

"I don't know, Holmes," Watson said finally, gently placing the leg down on its pillow. "My best guess is that the ligaments were damaged. If that's true, it will take quite some time to heal. Longer, even, than your various breaks."

Holmes sighed. "So long as I regain use of my hands, I can bear almost anything."

 

One week after Watson first returned home, Holmes demanded to be released from the hospital. He'd acquired crutches--Watson had spoken to one of Holmes' doctors on the matter--and was able to hobble around after a fashion by pushing them forward with his thumbs. He could not get far, for his stamina was not yet up to that challenge, but this small bit of mobility was enough to make him impatient with remaining in the hospital bed, or even in the hospital room, for a moment longer.

When Watson did not immediately agree to help him leave, Holmes threatened to leave on his own. Watson smirked and said, "You can try."

Holmes and his crutches got as far as the door before Mary intervened. "Mr. Holmes, you at least need some trousers," she said sweetly. Holmes' head dipped down as if he was looking at himself in the hospital-issued nightshirt, then he sagged a little on his crutches and did not fuss when Mary helped him turn around to come back.

Watson laughed until Mary leveled a glare at him and said reprovingly, "John. The least you can do is find him some clothes."

This proved to be an obstacle; the clothes Holmes had been wearing when rescued had disappeared and were likely destroyed. Watson had to go to Baker Street to fetch something for him to wear and Mary made it clear that he should also retrieve anything Holmes might need during his stay at their house.

It was the next day before Holmes had a set of clothes on hand. The next obstacle was putting them on, particularly on his bottom half. He was able to get his trousers to his knees before he had to stop and ask for help. Watson sighed and begrudgingly moved to assist, but he wasn't able to make any progress with the trousers before Mary stopped him because he was hurting Holmes.

She directed him to help Holmes stand with the trousers around his ankles, then she stood where Holmes could put his hands on her shoulders while Watson crouched between them and tugged the trousers up. "Don't get excited," Watson said wryly as he buckled the belt. Holmes blushed.

Holmes could almost manage his shirt on his own, save the buttons. These Mary did up for him, and then he was sufficiently dressed to venture out of his room. He was sweating profusely and said faintly, "I need to sit down."

Watson helped him sit down on the bed; Holmes sighed, then slumped forward and would have fallen if Watson hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders. "Holmes!" he said, shaking him slightly, then laid him back across the bed.

Mary already had smelling salts in her hand and she held the bottle near Holmes' face until he groaned and his eyes opened. "Don't speak," she said, slipping the bottle into her purse and pulling out a handkerchief that she used to blot away the sweat on his face. "You've overdone it, I'm afraid. Just rest a while and we'll see if you're well enough to leave."

Holmes wasn't able to leave until the next day. He kept the clothes on overnight so they wouldn't have to deal with them again and, though he didn't sleep well, he was no longer light-headed with pain by the time Watson and Mary returned the next morning.

He was given just enough morphine to make the journey easier but not enough to knock him out, since he would need to be able to help get himself in and out of the carriage. He was conveyed to the front of the hospital in a wheeled chair--pushed by Watson, while Mary carried his crutches--and somehow they got him into the cab without jarring his knee too much.

Though Holmes knew on an intellectual level that a ride in a cab was often bumpy and rough, this fact was revealed to him in a whole new light during that hellish journey from the hospital to Watson's abode. Watson rode next to him to try to keep him from being jostled too much, but that gesture meant little when he could feel the reverberation of the wheels on every cobble in his very bones.

He disembarked from the carriage in a haze, his mind feeling detached and adrift. It was almost a miracle that he managed to make the crutches work for the short distance from the curb to the front step, but after that it was all downhill. Watson had to lift him onto the step and practically carry him through the door; once his foot hit the hallway tile, he was vaguely aware that his stomach was knotting and cramping violently.

What happened next was lost in a swirl of sensations that was swallowed up by the overriding pain. When his swimming senses finally cleared, he was in a bed in a room he didn't recognize and Watson was sitting in an armchair beside him. It took considerable effort to turn his head; he was heavily drugged, the thrumming pain dampened enough that he could breathe without wanting to cry out.

"Good afternoon," Watson said.

"How long--" his voice sounded rough in his ears. Had he been screaming?

"You've been out for a few hours. We thought it was best to let you rest, after that little display in the hall."

"What--"

"You threw up and passed out rather dramatically. It's just as well we weren't outdoors; you fainting in my arms would have been fantastic gossip for the papers."

"You shouldn't tease him, he couldn't help it," Mary said, coming to Holmes' rescue as she entered the room with a pitcher and a glass. "Do you need a drink?"

"No, thanks," Watson replied with a smirk.

Mary swatted the back of his head. "I wasn't talking to you." She poured some water into the glass, then helped Holmes drink it carefully.

"Thank you," he said, his voice much closer to normal.

"You're welcome. Some of us want to help you recover, you know," she said with a smirk and a sidelong glance at Watson.

"I shall be out from underfoot as soon as I can be," Holmes said semi-seriously.

Mary clucked her tongue. "Don't worry about that, please. Rest, recover, and we'll see what happens."

 

Holmes was still achy the next morning, but he was able to drag himself from the bed and slowly hobble down the hallway, acquainting himself with what he could reach of the house.

"You shouldn't be up," Mary said, standing in the doorway of the kitchen as he passed. "If you're not careful, you'll overdo it again."

He stopped when he reached the parlor doorway and carefully turned himself around. "If I don't push myself, I won't recover," he said reasonably.

"Yes, but it is also possible to push too far, which will only make things worse."

"Where's Watson?"

"Seeing a patient. He was called away a few hours ago."

Holmes began his slow return trip down the hallway. "When did he begin seeing patients again?"

"He hasn't, officially, but he told a few of his long-term patients that he is available."

"How typically misguided of him."

Mary smirked and stepped back into the kitchen. "Come and sit down," she urged, and he carefully diverted into the kitchen.

Sitting in a chair was a relief after his wandering, brief as it was; the cup of tea she set before him was also quite welcome. It took a bit of shifting to find a comfortable position for his knee, but resting his foot on the bottom rung of the opposite chair worked nicely.

As he settled in, Mary asked, "How much would you like for breakfast?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Holmes said quickly.

"That wasn't the question. You will be eating something. How much can you manage?"

"Not much," Holmes said reluctantly, looking into his tea.

"Toast, then, and maybe an apple?"

He shrugged noncommittally. While she busied herself putting together his meal, he studied the problem of his teacup. He could lean over and slurp from it, but that would only be successful for the first half inch or so. Insufficient. The cup looked sturdy enough, so he carefully cupped his palms around it, grasping it with the heels of his hands. Now he could awkwardly lift it and sip from it, and he felt quite pleased with himself.

He wasn't sure what was more astonishing: that he had not, to this point, realized how truly indispensable his fingers were, or that he'd somehow made it this long after his injuries without needing to even pick up his own cup.

"I had thought you might be able to grasp that mug," Mary said as she set a plate with two pieces of toast in front of him. "Did you try?"

Holmes set the cup down and eyed it dubiously. He shifted his hands and tightened both hands around the porcelain, some of his fingers overlapping. With careful effort, he tried to lift the mug. His fingers ached from the strain but the mug was off the table. For a short time, at least. He watched it tremble in mid-air, mesmerized; then, as the trembling of his hands made the tea slosh in the cup, he slowly lowered it again.

"You aren't using your thumbs," Mary observed.

"No," he said shortly. His thumbs were often sore, partly from the way he had to use the crutches.

She did not pursue that subject and said instead, "Can you pick up the toast?"

He gingerly unwrapped his fingers from the mug, feeling them twinge from the unaccustomed strain, and contemplated the toast. There didn't seem to be any good way to do it, so he reached out and tried to pick it up between thumb and forefinger as he normally would.

It worked for the first few bites. Then his hand began to cramp and he had to drop it suddenly. Naturally, it landed on the table, buttered side down. He sighed.

"Don't worry about it," Mary said encouragingly. "Now try the other hand."

He was able to pick the toast up off the table with his left hand and hold it long enough to take another bite before he again needed to put it down. This time he knew it was coming and was able to set it on the plate.

"Good," Mary proclaimed. "You just need some practice. Do you want to try using a fork, or should I help you with the rest?"

He opted for the fork. It didn't go well, and that's all that should be said about that.

Mary had to feed him the rest of the toast and the slices of the apple she decided he should have (his opinion didn't count). Try as he might to avoid it, on a few occasions his lips brushed her fingertips; remarkably, she didn't react with nervous laughter or flustered anger. In fact, she didn't react at all, save for a slight flush that rose on her cheeks.

Watson returned home just as Holmes was finishing the last piece of the apple and distracted Mary from offering him anything else to eat. It also gave Holmes the opportunity to ask Watson for a bit of personal assistance; once Watson understood his meaning, he readily agreed.

By the time Holmes was dressed in fresh clothing and had his various needs tended to, he needed a nap. So did Watson, evidently; he'd tried to have Holmes put his trousers on backwards. Mary encouraged both of them to sleep for a while.

Holmes didn't expect Watson to settle on the other half of his bed, but he decided he didn't mind. And it was technically Watson's bed, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes woke slowly, feeling warm and comfortable. He heard Watson's even breathing to his left--still asleep. As he became more aware, he realized there was another person in the room, sitting to his right, and she had his right hand between both of hers. He opened his eyes and watched Mary curiously as she kneaded his hand.

"I hope I didn't wake you," she murmured.

"No."

"It seemed that your hands are stiff rather than actually painful, so I thought this might help."

He said nothing, content to watch the movements of her hands on his.

"Did you want me to stop?"

"No."

He continued watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. Every so often her eyes flicked up from her hands to his eyes, but she said nothing more until her hands stilled and she loosely held his hand in one of hers. "Squeeze my hand," she directed.

He did, slowly, closely observing how it felt as his fingers obeyed his command. There was still some pain, and his grip wasn't as firm as it might have been, but it was progress.

"Good," she said encouragingly, then switched hands and interlaced her fingers with his. "And like this?"

This was different, and caused an ache in his knuckles, so he let go more quickly this time. Mary maintained her grip and lifted his hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

"Why?" he asked, finally voicing the question that had been on his mind since he'd noticed her overly kind behavior toward him.

"John is not the only one who holds you in high regard, Mr. Holmes. Would you like me to do your left hand?"

He offered it to her, but he couldn't reach as far since he was lying flat on his back. She moved her chair close enough to take his hand with ease, so close that he could set his right hand in her lap if he were so inclined. He wasn't.

"Regard for me is an insufficient explanation, even if true."

"You think I'm lying?" She sounded amused rather than offended.

"I think it is improbable based upon the sum of the events leading to this point. There is no reason for you to have much regard for the one who led to your husband's kidnap and torture, to say nothing of our earlier misdeeds."

"I told you before: it is his choice to accompany you, so what befalls him is not your fault."

"He wasn't their target. He was only taken because he was with me."

"I know," she said softly. "I received a note while both of you were missing."

"Why didn't you mention it sooner? What did it say? Where is it?" Holmes asked eagerly, trying to rise from the bed.

She held him in place with a hand on his chest. "It said nothing of use. I will show it to you another time." She glanced at the still-sleeping Watson, then lowered her voice further. "I don't want him to know."

Holmes raised his eyebrows but allowed himself to sink back into his pillow. "I see."

"Tell me why my regard is an insufficient explanation."

"I hold a few individuals in high regard, but I would never do for them as you have done for me."

"Perhaps that is because you do not behave the same way toward people as I do."

"Even so. I am fairly certain that, though Watson could be said to hold me in high regard, he would not kiss my hand the way you did a short time ago."

"How certain are you?" She was looking over him toward Watson with a devious gleam in her eyes.

"Would you like to bet on that?" Watson asked, sitting up beside him.

Holmes quickly looked over at Watson, then back at Mary, and found himself utterly baffled as he tried to make sense of the situation. So he stalled for time. "If we were to make a bet, what would be the terms?"

"If you are correct, then I will allow you to determine when you will return to your usual activities. But if you are wrong, then you will submit to my opinion about when you are fit--and without complaint."

Holmes glanced from one to the other several times, still failing to grasp the meaning underlying the conversation. There were volumes being said without a word being spoken, but it was a language he did not understand.

He had thought he knew Watson's feelings for him--fond annoyance being the most common manifestation--but this simple query had thrown everything into question. In the end, he truly did not know the answer. "I'll accept those terms."

"John?" Mary said, holding out a hand to him. When he took it, she lifted his hand to her lips and set a kiss on the back. Then she leaned in and he briefly kissed her.

Their combined attention then fell on Holmes and he felt a flicker of something that could have been fear or anticipation.

"I believe the question was whether I would kiss your hand the way Mary did. Let this be your answer," Watson said, taking Holmes' hand and boldly kissing both the back and the palm.

"In fact, I can and will do one better." He leaned over and pressed his lips to Holmes'. The kiss was warm and soft, long enough to express intent but not so long as to make him feel trapped.

Which isn't to say he would have felt trapped. Quite the contrary. When Watson pulled away, he tried to grasp his shirt to keep him there, but he could not move quickly enough.

In any event, Watson remained beside him, looking at him in a way that made him feel peculiar. "You- I- How long have you felt like this?" he asked, desperate to break the silence and come to a point where he understood what was transpiring.

"For quite some time," he admitted, his eyes darting toward Mary briefly.

Holmes turned to look at her and was astonished to find she seemed quite pleased. "And you approve?"

She smiled at him, leaning forward to gently brush her lips across his. "I do not merely approve," she said, her mouth still so close to his that he could feel her breath as she spoke. "I have come to feel the same way."

It felt like his mind was broken. It was all he could do to stare at each of them in turn, struggling to determine what he thought about being propositioned by the Watsons. Part of him was unquestionably in favor and, since that was the only cogent opinion he could summon up, he decided to go with it. "What did you have in mind?" he asked with no small amount of curiosity.

"Nothing just yet," Watson said. "You're not sufficiently healed."

"Nothing taxing," Mary corrected. "There are plenty of things that can be done without causing him pain."

Watson nodded, conceding the point.

Any further discussion of the matter was put on hold, for lunch was ready and Mary decreed that they would be eating at the table.

~~~

The promise of things to come only exacerbated Holmes' tendency to push too far too fast, and Mary frequently had to attempt to moderate his eagerness. In the first week under their roof, he had made considerable progress, to the point that he was able to lift a full cup with either hand and bend his knee nearly forty-five degrees, though it could not yet bear any weight. But the progress came with the price of reawakened aches and difficulty sleeping when his healing body protested the abuse he inflicted upon it.

It was then that Mary discovered she could use his eagerness to persuade him to stop pushing himself so hard, for he was very easily distracted when kissed or touched. When she successfully halted his unsuccessful--and rather heart-stopping--attempts to put weight on his right foot by kissing him until he allowed himself to be nudged down into the nearest chair, she mused that John ought to have exploited this much sooner. He might have been able to control some of Holmes' outrageous behavior with the strategic application of sexual favors.

But it seemed that, even with all revealed between them, John was unwilling to be demonstrative in his affection for his long-time friend. She had never seen him so much as kiss Holmes after that one brief instance, and she worried that she had taken the matter beyond the point that John was comfortable with.

Then she returned home from tea with one of her charity circles and found Holmes and John closeted away in Holmes' room, Holmes lying spread-eagle on the bed with John between Holmes' legs on elbows and knees, his mouth around Holmes' cock. She felt a sudden flood of warmth watching the spectacle--how could two almost-fully-clothed men arouse such sudden desire in her?--and quickly stripped down to her shift.

Mary climbed onto the bed, slipping her fingers between John's trousers and shirt to drag her nails across the small of his back as she scrambled up to where Holmes was grinning beatifically. "Hello, dear," he greeted her. She kissed him, settling down to lie at his side and throwing one leg over his so she could press herself against his thigh.

He had one hand tangled in John's hair, but the other he raised to stroke her side and the curve of her hip, occasionally straying up to feel her breast and tease the nipple with his thumb. She rocked against him, unbuttoning his shirt to feel his chest while she continued to kiss him, enjoying the feel of his stubble lightly scraping against her skin.

It wasn't long before he stiffened, then gasped and shuddered and went slack beside her. She watched John lift his head and look surprised to see her as he hurriedly wiped his mouth; she smiled and gestured for him to come to her. He rose up on his knees and fumbled with his trousers, managing to get them halfway down his thighs before awkwardly shuffling toward her.

With some shifting, she was on her back, embraced by Holmes who was suddenly quite enamoured with her breasts, and her shift was rucked up around her middle. John kissed her as he entered her in one swift thrust; she groaned and held him there with her legs around his waist. He was quite thoroughly aroused, and it was not long before he was shaking against her and his climax took her along with him. Then there was only panting and warmth and Holmes' hands gently cupping her breasts.

"I thought we'd be finished before you were home," John said into her neck.

"And make me miss this?" she said aghast. "I meant what I said. Now let me see you kiss him."

Holmes chuckled. "Really, Watson, I wouldn't have guessed that you let her take charge in the bedroom."

"Oh, be quiet," Watson said and leaned over to kiss Holmes.

Holmes did not let him get away with a brief peck; he moved one hand to Watson's nape and held him in place as they kissed. Mary knew that this was said to be immoral, but oh, how enthralling it was to watch! And she knew John enjoyed it, for she felt him beginning to harden within her once again. She tensed around him and was pleased to see him falter briefly as she did so.

She rocked gently against him as Holmes ravaged his mouth, and he unraveled quickly between them. Only then did she lower her legs and allow him to slip away.

"Not fair," he huffed as he collapsed beside her, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

"Who said anything about being fair?" Mary asked sweetly.


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps her participation assuaged John's misgivings about her comfort with the idea of him lavishing attention on Holmes. Or perhaps the interaction settled doubts about his own feelings for Holmes. In any case, John was far more demonstrative toward Holmes in front of Mary than before. He was also careful to give her the proper attentions of a husband, and she was quite satisfied with the way things were developing.

After Holmes had been at their house for about a fortnight, his brother came to visit. Holmes was sprawled on the sitting room settee at the time, so Mycroft settled in a chair nearby and studied his brother and his hosts while they passed some minutes in polite small talk. When he suggested that the Watsons take a walk and allow him to mind his brother, they gladly assented--since Holmes' arrival, they had not been able to leave the house together, as Holmes could not be left entirely alone.

In their absence, Mycroft leveled his probing gaze on Sherlock and commented, "It is an unorthodox arrangement, but they appear content. What of you? Will you remain here and abandon your flat?"

"That has not been discussed, but no, I cannot remain indefinitely. At some point I must resume my work, and Watson resume his, and eventually they will have children . . ."

"I will see that your rent continues to be paid. Mind yourself, Sherlock. If you do not intend to continue this, do not mislead them."

"But there is no harm in indulging them so long as I remain."

 

Not long after Mycroft left, Watson was called away to assist with a patient. Holmes was still on the settee, debating whether to get up or not, when Mary entered and handed him an envelope. "The note I received," she explained.

He sat up and studied it intently while she sat down beside him. No address on the outside, so it was hand-delivered. The envelope and paper were common, the typical stock found at every corner stationer's. The words of the message had been cut from the newspaper and, as assembled, said, "Your husband ought to choose his friends with more care."

"I interpreted it as a warning, albeit an unnecessary one. I already knew that John can encounter danger when assisting you."

"Yes, quite," Holmes said as he returned the paper to its envelope. "And I cannot continue to expose him to that danger, particularly once you begin a family."

"Don't you think that should be his decision?"

"You decided not to show him that note, presumably to protect him. I, too, am trying to protect him."

"And when something happens to you because he is not there to help--what then? Do you expect me to reassure him that you were protecting him by going alone?"

Holmes grabbed his crutches and levered himself up off the settee. "Evidently it was too much to expect you to understand," he said and hobbled out of the room.

Mary took a moment to be impressed at how much better he was at using the crutches, then rose and followed him. "Sherlock," she said sharply, catching up with him before he could shut her out of his bedroom. "Evidently you don't understand John. You cannot decide for him what he will do."

"No? It would be difficult for him to accompany me if I do not tell him where I am going, or when." He dropped onto the bed with a grunt and set the crutches against the wall.

"You will hurt him far worse than any criminal is capable of, I hope you realize that." She stood in front of him, her arms crossed resolutely.

Holmes sighed and hunched over, one elbow on his knee and his other hand running roughly through his hair. "Better that than some things I could think of."

"What is this about?" Mary demanded, dropping to her knees so she could try to look him in the face. "Did your brother put you up to this?"

"Nothing of the sort. Mycroft merely pointed out--quite correctly--that I need to consider the future."

"And your future does not include us," she said flatly. "If you were opposed to our arrangement, you could have said so from the first."

"It's not that," he said quickly. "Only--we cannot stay like this. If I remain here even after I am able to do for myself, there will be talk of the sort that will damage your reputations. Watson could not long practice medicine in such conditions."

"You do not have to sacrifice your happiness for his sake--our sakes," she objected. "I understand why you would maintain a separate residence, but you could visit as often as you please."

Holmes shrugged. "Perhaps."

She sat on the bed beside him and took his hand. "Decisions that affect all of us should not be made solely by one person. Let's wait to discuss this with John."

He nodded hesitantly. She slipped her arm around him and he leaned against her, his head on her shoulder. She pressed her lips to his forehead and he sighed shakily, then tilted his head and kissed her languidly. It was slow and sweet, the sort of kiss that feels like it could go on forever if neither of them paid any heed to hunger or thirst or anything else.

Mary alternated between running her hands through his hair and clutching it--oh how she loved that his hair was long enough to really hold on to, unlike John's--and gently unfastening his clothing, parting it so she could feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms. Then his hands were on her own clothing, and in what seemed to be no time at all, he had the bodice loosened and her corset untied so all she had to do was shrug them off.

"I'm impressed," she said against his mouth even as she worked her arms from her sleeves. "John still makes a mess of the strings sometimes."

He discarded his shirt. "I have familiarized myself with women's garb for disguise purposes."

She drew back and considered his face, his form. She traced her fingers over his cheekbones and along his jawline, remembering how he had looked when she'd shaved him. "Yes," she said finally. "If done properly, you would make a striking woman. You'll have to let me do you up sometime."

He smiled slowly. "With pleasure," he said, and there was no more speaking for quite a while.

By mutual agreement, they shifted to lie down upon the bed. Holmes turned so he could stretch out and Mary rose long enough to shed her dress, then helped him shimmy out of his trousers and pants. As she climbed onto the bed next to him, she looked appreciatively at his nude form, then laughed.

"I have not elicited that reaction from you before," he noted without sounding offended.

She let her fingers trail over his chest and down to his navel. "When John first woke, he asked me to find out how you fared, so I snuck into your room. Your brother escorted me out for the sake of your privacy. I don't think he imagined I would be seeing you naked again, much less in these circumstances. Of course, neither did I at the time."

He folded his hands on his chest, looking for all the world like he was having an ordinary conversation despite the erection he was sporting. "When did that change?" he asked quietly.

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted bashfully, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. "Perhaps when the very first thing on your mind when you woke was how John fared."

He grasped her arm and pulled her back into kissing range, then set his hands to tugging her shift up and off.

When she was entirely nude, she rose up on her knees and straddled his thighs, then sat back and caressed his cock and sac until he was squirming beneath her. Then she inched up his body and lowered herself onto his cock.

As soon as he was fully sheathed inside her, he lifted his head and, with a wild look in his face, said, "Don't."

She immediately lifted off of him and leaned forward onto her forearms so they could speak face-to-face. "Why? Do you have an objection to me, or to the act in general?"

"I- What if you, uh, become with child? People will talk if your child looks nothing like Watson."

"You worry altogether too much about what people might say," she said fondly. "I would be proud to bear your child, and some of my relatives on my father's side have coloring similar to yours. It would not be an issue."

He looked unconvinced, even after she kissed him.

"I should start to bleed within the next few days, so it is very unlikely I could become pregnant just now," she said in a low voice. "And if I do not bleed, then John will have been the cause of it. There is no reason for concern."

She could feel his heart racing when she pressed her lips to his neck, awaiting his decision. "In that case, do continue," he said faintly, his hands rising to her hips and already starting to nudge her in that direction.

She happily complied, sinking onto him quickly enough to draw a cry of pleasure from him. The pace she set was as rapid as their kisses had been slow, and it was not long before his grip on her thighs tightened to the point of bruising as he fell to pieces and climaxed deep inside her.

Breathing heavily but not quite at her own crisis point, she waited to move off of him until he could open his eyes. As soon as he did, he said, "You did not--? Come here and allow me to see to you." His hands moved up to her hips and he tugged her forward. She followed his lead hesitantly, uncertain what he had in mind.

Then he lifted his head and set those clever lips upon her clit, and she had to hold on to the headboard as sharp waves of intense pleasure pounded through her.

She felt boneless when her awareness returned, and he grinned, his head still between her legs. "Better?" he asked cheerfully.

All he got in response was a groan. She narrowly avoided knocking him in the head with her knee as she slumped down beside him.

They were still naked and sprawled on the bed when Watson returned some time later. He looked at them curiously for a moment, then shrugged and shucked his clothes off too.


	7. Chapter 7

Holmes stayed with them for a total of eight weeks. By the end of that period, he could get about reasonably well with the assistance of his cane and could manage the stairs up to their second floor with relative ease. (They were all quite pleased when he became able to handle stairs, as the bed in the master bedroom was considerably larger than the one in the guest room. The effort of scaling the stairs was thus amply rewarded.) He was also able to pick up, handle, and manipulate most objects, though playing the violin would require additional practice and sometimes his hands ached after doing fine or repetitive work.

He began taking cases on a limited basis two weeks before returning to Baker Street; what this meant was he could consider and solve as many cases as he liked, so long as they did not require him to exert himself or leave the premises--Watson was quite firm on that point. Holmes was able to offer several helpful suggestions to Lestrade in this manner, as well as clear up a bit of the backlog of mail that had accumulated during his absence (though Mary composed the responses, since writing was one of the finer tasks that made his hands ache).

There were a handful of letters that he spent a while perusing before he set them aside, along with a stack of seemingly unrelated newspaper clippings that he had accumulated during his stay. Mary never asked why he did this--though she did object to him cannibalizing the paper before anyone else had read it--for she presumed he had his reasons. He did, and he was careful to make sure this bundle of papers was safely stowed with his belongings for the return to his usual lodging.

Watson and Mary insisted upon accompanying him when he decided to resume his residence under the watchful eye of Mrs. Hudson. She met them at the door, having been warned by Watson via telegram of their imminent arrival. For a moment she and Holmes regarded one another silently. "Welcome back," she said finally, appearing to steel her nerves as she allowed them in.

"I do hope you haven't disturbed my things, nanny," he said in reply, heading briskly for the stairs.

Watson gave her an apologetic glance, but she was almost smiling. "I only moved nearly everything," she retorted, crossing her arms and staring up at him defiantly as he reached the landing and disappeared from view.

Watson and Mary followed him, but did not interrupt when they found him standing just inside the door and staring at the once-familiar room. "It has been so long," he murmured, then stuck his cane in the umbrella rack and dropped the satchel he'd carried into his armchair as he crossed over to the windows.

Watson carried the carpetbag of Holmes' clothes to Holmes' bedroom and Mary looked with interest around the sitting room; she had only been there a handful of times and things were slightly different every time. She wandered into the adjoining room and studied the bits of paper pinned to the wall, some of them connected by bits of string. She was so absorbed in reading the text and trying to understand the connections that she didn't realize Holmes was beside her until he spoke. "Excuse me, dear."

Mary hastily moved aside and watched as he pinned up some of the pieces he'd collected during his recovery and shifted some of the other bits around to accommodate them. Then he stood back and surveyed his work, occasionally stepping forward to pin up another length of string.

"So all of this will end up connected somehow?" she asked.

"That is the expectation," he said with a brief flicker of a smile. "But as you can see, my work is not yet complete."

"Was the kidnapper part of all this?"

He moved to his right and pointed to a place where several strings converged. "Here. I believe he was only two or three steps from my true quarry."

Her eyes trailed further to the right, to a photograph that was not connected to anything. "He doesn't look like a threat."

"That is the genius of the thing. No would would ever suspect this innocuous mathematics professor is the spider at the center of the web behind much of the crime of London and a good deal on the Continent."

"Why is there no string leading to him, if he is at the center of it all?"

"Because I cannot yet prove there is a connection. It will come, with more work."

"And you will call upon John if that work is dangerous."

It was not a question. He nodded once, briefly. "If I must."

"See that you do."

The agreement they had negotiated was that Holmes would summon Watson if an excursion had the potential for bodily harm, and any injury that occurred when he had not called Watson would result in Holmes remaining in their care until Watson deemed him fit to resume his work. Knowing that Watson would keep him inactive far longer than Holmes would want should be sufficient motivation to encourage compliance. At least that was the plan.

He was also required to appear at least once each week at their house for a meal in addition to being welcome to stop in whenever he wished. This part was more likely to be disregarded over time, but Mary wanted to make sure that Holmes knew he was part of their home even though he had returned to his own flat.

"We're staying for dinner," Watson announced as he joined them in the room. Then he sighed. "Only you would use a perfectly good room to stick bits of paper all over the walls."

"What it needs are some maps," Holmes said and disappeared into the sitting room. The sound of sliding books and toppling papers followed, and he returned with an armful of rolled up maps. He enlisted Watson's help to hang a large one of Europe over the fireplace, then eagerly began rearranging some of his papers around it and tacking strings to the appropriate cities.

Mary was able to persuade him to take a break when she noticed him clenching his hands in pain, and dinner was brought up shortly thereafter. It was a pleasant meal--though Holmes would staunchly argue it was due to the company and not the food--and the table small enough that there was some foot-nudging and leg-brushing, both accidental and intentional.

There was also one instance of leg-kicking when Watson thought Holmes was staring at him just a little too long and not for the right reasons. "Stop watching me!" he cried as he lashed out, but was considerate enough to attack the left shin rather than the right.

"I was making sure you were not experiencing a recurrence of . . . your former trouble," Holmes said cheekily.

That earned him a put-upon sigh and another half-hearted swipe at his leg. "That hasn't been an issue for weeks and you know it."

"The change in atmosphere might have had an effect," Holmes argued.

"I note that you have not eaten as much as you can," Mary broke in, looking pointedly at Holmes. "Stop bothering John or we'll tie you down and feed you ourselves-"

"Please," Holmes said with a smirk, sitting back in his chair.

"-while Mrs. Hudson watches."

Holmes' smirk disappeared. "Manipulative wench," he muttered into a mouthful of beef.

"If that's what I am, what does that make you?" she asked sweetly.

He smiled insincerely back at her but didn't say a word. He knew better.

Once the meal was over, Watson and Mary seemed reluctant to leave, but had no real reason to stay. Holmes was feeling tetchy and curled himself in his armchair, letting them decide what to do with themselves. After a brief conversation in low tones, Mary knelt in front of his chair. "We're going to leave now. We will visit again tomorrow. All right?"

He nodded tersely and she stood up enough to kiss him gently. "Behave yourself," she said mildly. Watson came over and clasped Holmes' hand briefly in farewell, then they took their leave.

Holmes watched them board the cab from the window and tried to ignore the strange sensation in his chest. He wandered back to his papers and strings and maps and organized and rearranged and reconnected things until his fingers refused to pick up the small pins any longer. He had no idea what time it was but reasoned it was likely time to sleep.

It was strange how a few weeks with a strict schedule actually made him feel tired at night, to say nothing of the havoc it wreaked on his appetite and mealtimes. Which is to say he had become rather accustomed to sitting down to three meals a day--and that didn't count teatime--and it felt quite odd. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't know what to make of it.

This opportunity to astonish Mrs. Hudson made him feel a little better about crawling into a cold, empty bed. But only a little.


End file.
